Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X

SECRET CACHE

As the trooper’s flashlight stabbed through the cellar gloom at the spot where Bud had disappeared, there came a loud splash!  The light showed a round hole in the floor, rimmed by a low circle of brickwork.

“What’s that hole?” the trooper snapped at the owner.

“What does it look like?” the elderly man snapped back.  “It’s an old well.”

“A well!” the trooper exclaimed as he rushed to the spot.  “And not even covered?  What’re you trying to do—­kill people?”

The old man sniffed.  “Used to be covered, but the lid’s gone.  Didn’t expect to have a bunch of nosy fellers pokin’ around down here!”

The state trooper muttered angrily under his breath as he shone his flashlight into the well-shaft.  Bud was splashing around below, soaked and chagrined by his accident.

“Give me a hand!” he called up.

The trooper reached down, but was barely able to touch Bud’s finger tips.  To make matters worse, the sides of the well were slippery with moss.

“Get a rope,” the trooper ordered the old man.

“Ain’t got one.”

The policeman reddened and stood up to his full six-foot-two.  “Look, mister—­what’s your name?”

The elderly man shrank back, as if suspecting that the trooper’s patience might have been tried too far.  “Ben Smith,” he mumbled.

“Okay, Mr. Smith, you get a rope or something else to pull this boy out.  And fast!”

Ben Smith gulped on his chewing tobacco and hurried off.  A minute or so later he returned with a length of clothesline.  The trooper lowered it into the well and Bud was soon climbing out, looking like a drenched rat.

“Sorry, son,” Smith said apologetically.  “Guess I should have warned ye.”

Bud chuckled good-naturedly.  “It’s all right,” he said.  “It was my own fault for not watching where I was going.  Besides, you can’t blame an American for not liking the idea of having his home searched.”

The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at the trooper.  “I’ll go get ye a towel to dry off with,” he told Bud.

Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another state trooper.  The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty, and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.

A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient furnace, and an accumulation of junk.  Most of it was covered with dust, but Tom noticed a large packing crate that looked as if it had been freshly moved.  He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.

“What’re you doing?” Latty asked gruffly.

“I want to look underneath,” Tom replied.  A second later his eyes widened as he saw a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar.

Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery.  “Where does this lead to?” the trooper asked, turning back to Latty.

“Just a little storage place,” the owner replied with a shrug.  “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.  You’d better not go down there,” he added hastily.  “The steps ain’t safe.”

“Just the same, we’ll take a look,” the trooper said.

“Then do it at your own risk!” Latty snapped.

The officer pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down.  The shallow dirt-walled room below was about six feet square.  On the floor, at the foot of a short rickety ladder, lay a large bundle wrapped in a tarpaulin.

Tom descended the ladder cautiously and opened the tarpaulin to see what was inside.  The contents made him gasp—­a large, well-oiled collection of rifles and pistols!

Looking up, Tom saw both the state trooper and Latty peering down at him—­the trooper openmouthed with surprise, Latty scowling nervously.

“Don’t touch ’em!” Latty warned.  “Some are loaded.  I keep ’em hidden for safety, but sometimes my nephew Fred here and I have target practice.”

Just then Tom’s keen eyes spotted a slip of paper tucked among the guns.  He pulled it out.  His heart gave a leap of excitement as he saw two words written on the paper—­Samson Narko!

Hiding his amazement, Tom read the name aloud and added casually, “What’s this?  The make of one of the guns?”

“Uh, yeah—­that’s right,” the man replied.

Without comment, Tom climbed out of the subcellar.  As he bent down to drop the trap door, Tom flashed the officer a signal.  Instantly the trooper grabbed Latty.

“Hey!  Why the rough stuff?” the prisoner exclaimed.  Then, as he realized the officer was about to handcuff him, the man’s face turned pasty white.  He pulled free from the trooper’s grasp and bolted toward the stairway.  His nephew stood as if paralyzed at the sudden turn of events.

  [Illustration (Tom finds Latty’s store of weapons)]

Latty’s attempt at flight was hopeless.  Tom quickly brought him down with a flying tackle.

Later, after Latty had been manacled, Tom helped him up.  “In case you don’t know it,” the young inventory said coldly, “your friend Narko is in jail, so you may as well talk.  What’s the pitch?”

Latty was trembling and still pale.  “I—­I d-didn’t know there’d be any trouble with the cops or I’d never have done it,” he quavered.  “Narko offered me some dough to hide the guns.  I needed money, so I took him up.  That’s all there was to it.”

“How long have you known this Narko?” Tom asked.

“I met him a few days ago in a restaurant.  Believe me, I’d never laid eyes on him before.  And I wish I never had!” Latty added bitterly.

The man’s story had a ring of truth.  “All right, Officer, let’s take him in,” Tom said.  To the still-astounded Fred, he added, “We’re sorry about this.”

Two hours later Tom and Bud sat in Chief Slater’s office at Shopton police headquarters.  Captain Rock and the Shopton fire chief were also on hand.

“We’ve had troopers, detectives, and fire inspectors swarming all over Latty’s place,” Captain Rock reported.  “They examined his house, the garage, two sheds out back, and every inch of the grounds.  But there’s no indication of any place where a bomb might have been planted to cause an underground explosion in Shopton.”

The fire chief nodded confirmation.  “So that clue peters out,” he said.

With the waning of daylight, the other groups had finally abandoned their search of the Shopton area without turning up any information.  “I’ll notify the FBI immediately,” Chief Slater said.

Nevertheless, he promised that his men would continue their efforts the next day.

“Even if we find nothing more, that arms cache was worth all the trouble,” Slater added.  “The country owes you a vote of thanks, Tom.  A bunch of enemy agents could have hurt a lot of people with an arsenal like that!”

“That’s for sure,” Captain Rock agreed.  “It was a good day’s haul, Tom.”

The two boys drove back to the Swift home and had a quick shower.  Bud borrowed clean clothes from Tom.  Then they sat down to enjoy a warmed-up but tasty supper, served by Sandy and Mrs. Swift.

As they ate, the boys listened to music on the radio, interspersed with eager questions from Sandy about the bomb search.

Suddenly the radio announcer broke in.  “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an important news bulletin!”